Damaged Hearts. Jan St. Marcus

second company so that neither company really knew what I did. Pantere & Associates is the second company in the scheme and once every few weeks, I have to go to their offices to report on the progress of my “projects” so they can put it in their reports to the “other” company. It’s really a complete farce because I haven’t ever reported anything other than a percentage of work completed and a percentage of work remaining and an estimate of the time required to complete the contract. The rest of the meeting is spent with other contractors and subcontractors detailing their work status. But, it’s part of the contract and I have to go, and it would really piss off the people there if I didn’t take it seriously. So walking in there with a huge smile would be adding insult to injury. And that’s why I don’t usually drive my Porsche into the office.

      ***

      I’m sitting by the window in the pretty cool conference room on the twenty-first floor of this building that overlooks Santa Monica Beach, and I’m running probabilities in my head about how much longer this boring ass meeting is going to last and Sal looks at me. Oh shit. He asked me a question and I didn’t even realize he was talking to me.

      “Say again?” I ask.

      “Any chance you can help Marty with the formulas he’s struggling with?” He chuckles. “You are a mathematician, right?”

      I smile my most charming smile at Sal and then look at Marty, who’s glaring at me. “Sure. Can you pop it onto a thumb drive for me, Marty? I didn’t bring my laptop.”

      Marty smirks like he’s the smartest guy in the room—he knows he’s not, but he wishes he was. “It’s kind of classified. Can’t really leave the building, if you know what I mean.”

      I look at Sal, who is rolling his eyes. I look back at Marty and he’s now wearing a shit-eating grin, like he got me or something. I smile back at him and take a deep breath. “This is what, Marty? The third time I’ve had to help you out with some basic principles of math?” Before he can say anything, I look back to Sal. “I mean, come on, Sal. He can’t be serious. He’s sitting there smiling like this is a joke.”

      Sal glares at Marty. And sure as shit, Marty isn’t smiling anymore. “Do you think this is funny, Marty?”

      “No, sir,” Marty stammers. “Not at all.”

      “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult and I really do want to be a team player, but sometimes it’s so hard when Marty is sitting there smirking at me.” My face tightens and I feel . . . oh my God . . . is that a tear I feel building up in my eye? “I know you guys make fun of me because I’m not one of the ‘cool guys,’ but this kind of harassment really hurts.” I wipe at my face. Everyone at the table looks away, embarrassed. Hard glares at Marty.

      “We’ll have none of that bullshit. You hear me, Marty! Michelangelo brings in about ten times the revenue of your whole department. You will send your work to my office and you two can work on it there. Is that okay with you, Michelangelo?”

      I wipe my face again. “Sure, boss. Glad to help.”

      He looks at Marty with venom in his eyes. “And, Marty, if I see that this is bullshit . . . well . . . let’s just say that you won’t be having a good day. Am I clear?”

      “Yes, sir,” Marty says softly, hanging his head.

      “Anything else?” Sal asks the room. “Okay, that’s it. Let’s do good work.” Sal motions for me to join him as people begin to file out of the room. He puts his arm over my shoulder and guides me out. I catch Marty glaring back over his shoulder at me. I give him a wink. Asshole. “Sorry about that, Michelangelo. Marty’s a bit much sometimes, but he’s essentially a good guy.”

      “I’m sure he is. Sorry if I overreacted. I guess I’m still a bit raw. Had a bad night last night.”

      Sal gives me a squeeze. “Hang in there, kiddo. It’ll get better. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, okay?”

      “Thanks, Sal. Everyone says that it’ll just take time.”

      Sal gives me a knowing smile. “What the hell do they know anyway? Am I right?”

      I laugh and pat his back. “I’m rooting for them this time, though,” I say. We separate in the hall by his office. I walk the short distance to my office and plop down in my chair. I always make a point to spend a half-hour or so after our meetings sitting in my office acting like I’m working. It’s another bit of farcical drama because everyone is pretty jealous of my office. It’s got one of those huge windows overlooking the beach and it’s bigger than even the department heads get. But as Sal said in the meeting, my contract generates a lot of money for the company, so the perk of a nice office is warranted.

      I pull up my email and glance through the subjects. Comparatively speaking, this email isn’t all that secure, but the other company I work through sends me routine messages just in case anybody is paying attention and I get some personal messages on my company account to make everything seem pretty normal. I stop at a message with the subject: “This looks like you—lol.”

      I open the message from my friend Kevin and there’s a video attached. I read the message before opening it. “Hey, dude, this is what you’d look like if you were a total badass! LMFAO!” Kevin is a tech guy for one of the studios in Hollywood and he’s pretty funny. Not as funny as he thinks he is, but that’s still pretty funny. I click on the video and my blood runs cold—it’s my video from last night, and it’s gone viral. Oh shit! Not good.

      I immediately check outside my office to make sure nobody is nearby listening, and I email the link to my secure cell phone. I dial my handler, Devon, who is always on the other end of my phone. “Go secure,” I say, alerting him that something needs his immediate attention. I listen to the series of clicks and beeps.

      “Secure. What’s up?”

      “I’m sending you a link to a video from last night. I think it’s going viral.” I attach the link, press SEND, and listen to the whoosh as it transmits.

      “Shit, Michelangelo. That’s you?”

      “Yeah, it’s me. I’m told that the guy totally deserved it.”

      “Like that matters. Who took the video?” I don’t answer. “Why?”

      “I don’t know,” I say. “I think at the time I wanted to help the kid and maybe get the other asshole in trouble. But I didn’t send it to anyone except the cops.”

      “So you think they leaked it?”

      “Had to be. I’m serious. I didn’t even watch it after I sent it to the cop.”

      “Okay. It’s no biggie. We’ll get it cleaned up. Damn!” He laughs. “Did you really break his arm?”

      “I think I just dislocated his elbow. Not sure.”

      “It’s pretty funny, though. I think we can probably leave it up. We’ll make sure your face is blurred and scrape the voice. Should be fine.”

      “Thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”

      “What happened to the kid? The homeless guy?”

      “He’s at my place.”

      “Shit, Michelangelo! What are you thinking?”

      “I’m thinking the guy needs a break,” I say, half-pleading. Devon gets overly protective with me sometimes.

      “That’s going to go over like a really smelly fart in church when they hear about it upstairs.”

      “I figured.” I can hear the disappointment in my own voice.

      “Sit tight and let me see what I can do. I’ll run him, and we’ll see what we’re up against.”

      “Okay. Thanks.”